of his broad hand. He could only scowl at the brilliant, multi-faceted engagement ring of clustered pink diamonds, encircled by smaller rubies.
Less than an hour ago, Mitch had retrieved the ring from the floor near his desk. Which is where the object had landed after bouncing off his chest, hurled at him in unreasonable fury by Natalie Crane, the beautiful, cool, usually unemotional woman who had been his fiancée mere moments before.
The flawless gemstones caught the afternoon sun rays slanting through the window blinds behind him. Mitch made a soft sound that was part rude snort, part unpleasant laugh.
Women. Would he ever understand them? Had any man ever understood them? More to the point, Mitch mused, closing his fingers around the bauble, did he give a damn anymore?
Not for Natalie Crane, certainly, he thought, answering his own question. Without allowing him the courtesy of offering an explanation for the scene she’d witnessed, she had jumped to the wrong conclusion. Coldly calling him a cheat and telling him their engagement was over, she had thrown the ring at him.
Fortunately, Mitch had never deluded himself into believing he was in love with her; he wasn’t and never had been. He had simply decided that, at the age of thirty-five, it was time to choose a wife. Natalie had appeared eminently suitable for the position, being from one of the most wealthy and prestigious families in the Deadwood, South Dakota, area.
But now Natalie was history. With her precipitous accusations, she had impugned his honor, and he forgave no one for that.
Honor, his personal honor, was the one standard Mitch held as absolute. He had believed Natalie knew the depths of his sense of honor. Apparently, he had been mistaken, or she never would have misconstrued the situation she had happened upon, immediately leaping to the erroneous conclusion that he was playing around behind her back with his secretary, Karla Singleton.
Poor Karla, Mitch thought, recalling the stricken look on his secretary’s face after the scene. Shaking his head, he slid open the top desk drawer, carelessly tossed the ring inside and slammed it shut again. He had never really liked the token, anyway. The concoction of pink diamonds encircled by clustered rubies had been Natalie’s choice; his preference had been a simple, if large, elegant two-and-a-half-carat, marquis-cut solitaire.
Poor, foolish Karla, he amended, heaving a sigh raised by both sympathy and impatience.
Mitch could understand passion, he had experienced it himself…quite often, truth to tell. But what he couldn’t understand, would never understand, was why in hell any woman—or man, either, for that matter—would indulge their passions to the point that they’d risk their health as well as pregnancy through unprotected sex.
But believing herself in love, and loved in return, Karla had risked all with a man who had taken his pleasure…then taken off. He had supposedly left to find a job with a future, but nonetheless leaving Karla devastated, pregnant, unwed and ashamed to tell her parents.
Not knowing what else to do, Karla had turned to her employer, sobbing out her miserable tale of woe on Mitch’s broad shoulder. Of course, Natalie had picked that moment to pay a visit to his office. She had witnessed him holding the weeping young woman in his comforting arms and heard just enough to erroneously conclude that, not only had he been fooling around with Karla, but that he had impregnated her, as well.
As if he would ever be that stupid.
In retrospect, Mitch figured it was all for the best, since he certainly didn’t relish the thought of being married to a woman who didn’t trust him implicitly. From all historical indications, marriage could work without depthless love, but in his considered opinion, it couldn’t survive without trust.
So had ended his brainstorm of acquiring a wife, setting up house and having a family.
On reflection, Mitch acknowledged the niggling doubts he had been having lately about his choice of Natalie, not as a wife—he felt positive she would make an exemplary wife—but as the mother of his children. And Mitch did want children of his own some day. While he had admired Natalie’s cool composure at first, he had recently begun to wonder if her air of detachment would extend to her children…his children.
Having grown up with two brothers and a sister, in a home that more often than not rang with the sound of boisterous kids, controlled by a mother who had always been loving, even when firm, Mitch desired a similar upbringing for his own progeny.
In all honesty, Mitch admitted to himself that he was more relieved than disappointed by the results of Natalie’s false assumptions.
But he still had Karla’s problem to contend with, for she had asked for his advice and help. Mitch had always been a sucker for a woman’s tears, especially a woman he cared about. His own sister could give testimony to that. The sight of a woman he cared for in tears turned him, this supposedly tough, no-nonsense C.E.O. of a gambling casino in Deadwood, South Dakota, into the stalwart protector, the solver of feminine trials and tribulations…in other words, pure mush.
And Mitch did care about Karla, for her sake, because she was a genuinely nice person, and for his own sake, for she was the best assistant he had ever employed.
He had made some progress with Karla after calming her down following Natalie’s dramatic little scene. With some gentle probing—in between dwindling, hiccuping sobs—Mitch had learned that Karla was determined to have and keep her baby. Not for any leftover feelings for the father, because she had none, but simply because it was her baby.
A decision Mitch silently applauded.
Still, Karla had maintained that she felt too ashamed to go to her parents, who lived in Rapid City, to ask for their financial or moral support. Karla was an only child, so there were no siblings to apply to for assistance. And, though she had made some friends in the year and a half she had been in Deadwood, she felt none were close enough to dump her problems on.
That left him, Mitch Grainger, the man with the tough exterior, surrounding a core of marsh-mallow in regards to weeping, defenseless females.
Helluva note, for sure.
An ironic smile of acceptance teased the corners of his sculpted, masculine lips. He’d take on the combined roles of surrogate father, brother and friend to Karla because of his soft spot…and because, if he didn’t, and his sister ever found out about it, she’d have his hide.
His humor restored, Mitch reached for the intercom to summon Karla, just as a timid rap sounded on his office door, followed by the subdued sound of Karla’s voice.
“May I come in, Mr. Grainger?”
“Yes, of course.” He sighed; despite the numerous times he had asked her to call him Mitch, Karla had persisted in the more formal address. Now, after the emotional scene enacted mere minutes before, the formality seemed ludicrous. “Come in and sit down,” he instructed as the door opened and she stepped inside. “And, from now on, call me Mitch.”
“Yes, sir,” she said meekly, crossing to the chair in front of his desk and perching on the edge of the seat.
He threw his hands up in exasperation. “I give up, call me anything you like. How are you feeling?”
“Better.” She managed a tremulous smile. “Thank you…for the use of your shoulder to cry on.”
He smiled back. “I’ve had plenty of practice. Years back, my younger sister went through
